Nobody ever uses Esther. I like her a lot because, again, she's a blank face and I can do what I want with her.

Yay.

I hate my arms.

They're thin and pasty, olive toned and tinted grey. Milk white scars and faded scratches are scattered across my complexion, a result of consistent needless self harm. You can see every bone and tendon jutting out, my wrist not even measuring six inches around. Blue veins and a few stray freckles stand out among other blemishes, and they're hideous.

I cut my cuticles with an x-acto knife and scrape off dead skin around my fingernails. They're always painted in a particularly outrageous fashion to draw attention away from the bright pink, irritated skin and small, peeling wounds. Nobody notices.

I don't wear lip gloss, because I'm constantly biting my lip. When I'm nervous or embarrassed, I bite things. Hard. I often abstain from biting pens, because the thought of saliva coating something I touch regularly is kind of revolting. Until I turned twelve – five years ago – I would bite my nails into bloody nubs, but the varnish that coats them is thankfully an affective repellent.

My teeth are stained yellow from the copious amounts of coffee that I ingest. It allows me to stay awake in the morning after every night of restless turning and pondering. Combined with a daily prescribed dose of Adderall, I'm rendered frighteningly jittery, always bouncing my leg or tapping my fingers. When I smile, I try not to show my teeth.

I cut my hair by myself, and if I don't keep it at chin-length, it falls out in clumps. I dye it black – dark blue – dark purple. Whatever. Every three weeks I stain it with chemicals and dry it out further, but for the first few days it's vibrant and shiny.

My confidence skyrockets during those days, and plummets when the remains of fresh hair dye are squeezed from my wiry tresses.

I don't often make eye contact. Sometimes because I forget to, other times I'm too distracted or fidgeting with my phone. My eyes are big and almond shaped, and the color of almonds as well. An average shade of brown. My bangs are too long for anyone to see my eyebrows, which is convenient because I don't have to constantly pluck them.

I don't always shave my legs, because I rarely wear anything to show them off. They're even lighter than my arms, a pale yellow-white. Dry; thin; frail. I can cross my legs twice – I'll have my calves wrapped around each other with my ankles crossed, one foot on the ground, bouncing it quickly in a state of anxiety.

When I sit in a desk, I pull my legs up to my chest and sit with my chin on my knees. It's cramped but incredibly comfortable, the way I fold myself up. I guess I kind of like how I'm small enough to fit. I'm not exceedingly short – five foot three – but little enough for people to notice.

Well. If they notice at all.

I'm almost embarrassingly awkward. I can keep up a conversation well enough, but I doubt any discussion with me would be particularly memorable.

And I guess that's alright, because I don't have to worry about social anxiety. I'm not saying I'm invisible; no, I'm sure people know who I am. At least, I like to think so. The thought that I might be remembered if I died is predictably comforting.

If anything, a significantly redeeming quality of mine is my ability to capture memories. I'm never without my camera, and I'll take candid shots when people aren't looking. The majority of them turn out exceedingly well. My photos are something I'm proud of. Every night, I upload them to my website. If anybody looks at them, I wouldn't know. Nobody really mentions it. What I like most is that there aren't any pictures of me. I take the best pictures of I remain inconspicuous.

Do you know who I am?

THIS IS NOT AN ORIGINAL CHARACTER THIS IS ESTHER.

But I will be accepting OCs. I've got a very vague idea of what I want to do with this story, so go ahead and send them in. Tell me what you thought here, too. But I won't be taking every OC I'm given - when a story is overflowing with characters, it tends to be overwhelming and cluttered. I don't want that. I'll use the characters that I think I can work with best.

Also, this story will have slash. Because I'm a gay-loving slashwhore and het is boring. Sorry. If that's not your thing, don't bother sending anyone in. Another pet peeve of mine is when OC stories take away from the primary characters that are actually canon. The slash won't be ridiculous or smutty, but it will be present. If it bothers you, don't read. Simple.

If you'd like your OC to have a crush/boyfriend/girlfriend/best friend, feel free to mention it. I might oblige to your request and I might not. Just because there's slash doesn't limit your options; I'd like you to be surprised.

Alright, that's enough ranting. Right? Okay, so GET TO IT.